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My boyfriend of a year and a half and I just went our separate ways. I am not upset by the way that it ended or even that it did end; what upsets me is the fact that I now have to go out and start this intimate process of falling in love all over again. I don't want to have to explain my family to anyone else; I don't even want to explain myself. It is a daunting feeling knowing that I now have to find someone who not only will love me, but also my large, loud, and often "overly-interesting" family.

It's difficult to find someone who won't run away from me one day saying,

"This white-haired human/boulder hybrid that stands before you-the silent man with all the tattoos, hands the size of Montana, and permanent scowl-is my truck driver-turned engineer father. The man loves his motorcycle more than his family, so, don't worry about getting him to like you. He won't.

Also, that glittering creature-the woman in her sixties wearing clothing that would a twenty one-year-old blush and sewing together phrases that would make a sailor go to church-is my Romani mother. Yes honey; that's right. You are dating a gypsy.

I am the only product of that sloppy short-lived union, yet due to my parents' many marriages I am not an only child. I have one brother and four sisters (both half blood and step) along with two living grandparents, twenty aunts and uncles, and too many cousins to count-all more colorful than the next and each with their own stories to tell.

My family is the cause of most of my scars, but they are also the reason that the wounds healed. In order to truly love me, you must also love each and every one of them."